


Tanked and Pogoed

by Lint



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 10:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10762074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lint/pseuds/Lint
Summary: "That doesn't sound very punk rock," she comments.





	Tanked and Pogoed

**Author's Note:**

> ryaninthesky12 posted: Okay but consider punk motorcycle mechanic Betty and NY fashionista Veronica  
> (Turns out I had more to this, hope you don't mind.)

To say the girl looks out of place is being kind.

 

To say she's a graffiti filled billboard in a room full of Rembrandt's is more accurate.

 

Veronica can't help to wonder just how she got in here and, with that same train of thought, why security hasn't asked to see an invitation or just flat out escorted her off the premises. It's a black tie affair, and while she is certainly dressed in black, the skin tight jeans with rips in them and leather jacket adorned with pins hardly qualifies.

 

Those beat up pair of Chucks, paired with striped socks of all things, have surely seen better days. It's hard to make out what her t-shirt says, probably free advertising for some band no one out of the lower east side has ever heard of, decked out with a spiky haired miscreant that appears to be spray painting something on a wall. Her hair is oddly normal blonde, marred only by a single streak of blue, pulled into a ponytail with bangs cropped into a perfect line in the middle of her forehead. The face only accentuated by winged eyeliner and ruby red lips.

 

The connection of her presence is realized when her assistant Polly, walks up to her with a plate full of appetizers, the girl eagerly taking three bacon wrapped scallops into her hands. Veronica smirks, having discretely devoured nearly a dozen of those delicious delicacies throughout the course of the evening.

 

Without thinking, she wanders over to the pair, taking a small amount of satisfaction in the way Polly suddenly stands up straight. It's good to be the boss.

 

“Polly,” she says in greeting. “I trust you're enjoying the evenings festivities?”

 

The smile she receives in genuine, a trait that helped land her the job really, no big city bravado from a upstate townie.

 

“Of course Miss Lodge,” she replies. “The caterer is fantastic.”

 

Veronica looks to the plate perched between the sisters, wondering idly if she has room for another.

 

“I should hope so,” she replies fondly. “You made all the arrangements.”

 

Veronica's eyes meet with the girl out of place, whose only reaction to her presence is a curious lift of an eyebrow.

 

“Oh!” Polly exclaims. “Where are my manners? Miss Lodge, this is my sister Betty. Betty, this is Veronica Lodge.”

 

Veronica offers a hand in greeting, not at all surprised at the callous feel of Betty's taking it, what does surprise her is when the girl lifts the hand- toward her mouth and kisses the back of it. Something, Veronica notes, that nearly makes Polly's eyes bulge from her head.

 

“Charmed,” Betty greets. “I've heard so much about you.”

 

Veronica looks to Polly with a grin.

 

“Nothing too horrendous, I hope.”

 

Polly is quick to shake her head, as Veronica chuckles and places a placating hand on her shoulder. “I'm teasing of course.”

 

Betty looks at her like she doesn't believe that for a second.

 

“Nothing too bad,” she assures. “Outside of normal venting from a high stress environment. I mean, who knew clothes could be so cutthroat?”

 

Obviously not you, Veronica doesn't say. Someone who dresses like a vagabond, reminiscent of a music scene that up and died thirty years ago. Whose only real concern when if comes to dress, is whether you picked your clothes off the floor from the clean pile. Assuming there was such a pile in the first place. No, Veronica keeps these catty comments to herself, because despite the girl being a fashion nightmare, she is ridiculously attractive.

 

“And what do you do?” she asks instead.

 

“Motorcycles,” Betty replies bluntly.

 

“I'm sorry?”

 

“Fix them. Customize them. Race them every now and again.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Not what you expected?”

 

Veronica looks briefly to Polly, who is now just staring down at the plate of food.

 

“I might have assumed you were in a band,” she admits.

 

Betty laughs.

 

“That too. But anything that doesn't pay the bills, I'd hardly call a job.”

 

The conversation carries on seamlessly after that, despite them having so little in common, so much that Veronica loses track of time with their bantering. So much that neither one of them notice just when Polly had wanders off somewhere else. Anything she gives with her practiced snobbery, Betty gives right back with sarcastic fervor. It's thrilling, Veronica admits to herself. To not have someone constantly cow tow to her every whim. To challenge her, even if just verbally, the way she's secretly always wanted.

 

The party eventually winds down, the two having not parted ways the rest of the night, and Veronica finds herself escorting Betty out when it finally comes to a close. There's a motorcycle perched at the end of the sidewalk directly in front of the door, and Betty heads toward it, looking back at Veronica as if to say _you coming?_

 

The brunette follows, looking at the bike, and nearly bumps into Betty from behind she's so focused on it. Betty spins back to her, not at all phased by Veronica's sudden proximity, lips curling into a challenging smirk.

 

Veronica reaches out toward her leather jacket, pushing aside one lapel with the back of her hand so she can finally see what the ratty old shirt says, taking pleasure in the way Betty bites her lip with her forwardness.

 

 _Blanks 77_ is written in red across the top. Her instincts were certainly correct, some band she's never heard of, with _I wanna be a punk_ the message that spiky haired miscreant was scrawling on the wall with spray paint.

 

“Wanna be a punk?” Veronica questions. “Does that mean you're not?”

 

Betty laughs again, Veronica's eyes catching the way her throat pulses from it.

 

“It's just a song,” she answers.

 

Veronica nods.

 

“So what's your band's name?”

 

Betty, despite her gruff exterior, seems delighted by such a question.

 

“Betty and the Waves.”

 

For a moment Veronica isn't sure she heard correctly. Expecting something atypical of her alt-genre lifestyle.

 

“That doesn't sound very punk rock,” she comments.

 

“It isn't,” Betty agrees. “It's actually kind of a joke from when I was a kid back at home. My friends and I would just jam and make up stupid band names, but when I actually formed one I couldn't think to call it anything else.”

 

“Are you any good?”

 

“Not really.”

 

They share a smile.

 

“So,” Betty starts after a beat. “You wanna go for a ride?”

 

Oh how Veronica suddenly wants nothing more. But the rational part of her brain is quick to put the kabash on any such impulse. You just met this girl, it says. You could end up smashed into the back of a bus. Lose all your skin to road rash because she took a corner too fast.

 

“Those things are dangerous,” she rebuffs as Betty turns to throw a leg over the bike.

 

“Yeah,” Betty replies. “So's riding the subway in a thousand dollar Lodge original.”

 

Veronica is playfully scandalized.

 

“I do not take the subway,” she retorts, once again loving the sound of Betty's laugh.

 

“Of course you don't,” she concedes, reaching into her pocket, and handing Veronica a card. “If you ever change your mind, call me.”

 

She doesn't wait for an answer, kicking starting the engine, which roars loudly to life. Betty peels off like a streak into the night, leaving Veronica standing alone on the sidewalk, staring after her. Once the motorcycle turns out of sight, she looks down to the card she was given.

 

 _Empire Custom Cycles_ , it reads. With the motto of _“Whatever you want, we can do.”_

 

Betty's name and number are listed at the bottom, as Veronica flicks at the card with her finger, thinking it would never work. Not in a million years.

 

Slipping the card into her purse, she sighs. Knowing full well she's going to call anyway.

 

/\

 

Her first impression of Betty Cooper was a fish out of water, but now here she is, standing on an unknown shore gasping for air. What's that saying about karma? What goes around comes around? As you sow, so shall you reap? Good things come to those who wait? Ugh. Whatever. Who cares. The shop Betty works at is hidden in a decrepit little alley in the village, because of course it is. A hand remains slipped inside her purse, the can of mace held at the ready, even though it's broad daylight she's just conditioned to mistrust any part of Manhattan south of west 34th street.

 

The air smells of oil and grease, as she's bombarded with the sounds of traffic and power tools, and almost second guesses even coming in the first place. She presses on, however, entering the garage with head held high.

 

Sparks catch her eye, flying from a blowtorch held in the hand of a hulking man huddled off in the corner, as the whirring sound of an air powered ratchet pulls her attention to the opposite side of the shop. Indeed another hulking man wields the tool, and Veronica is starting to think she's come to the wrong place.

 

“You lost princess?” A gruff voice calls from behind her.

 

She turns to face yet a third hulking man, shiny bald head with a stark black beard that lingers all the way down to the middle of his stomach, which is exposed through his filthy coveralls because he couldn't be bothered to wear an undershirt. Stepping back on instinct, the mace in hand ready to be whipped out, Veronica is about to offer a stern warning when another familiar voice pipes in.

 

“Now Gearbox,” it calls. “What have we talked about scaring potential customers?”

 

Gearbox, Veronica thinks. How appropriate. The man smirks in amusement, pointing a wrench in her direction.

 

“If she's a potential customer,” he repeats. “Then I will wake up tomorrow with a head full of luxurious hippie hair.”

 

Veronica side eyes Betty, who just smiles as if she can't imagine such a sight and waves off the brute with a fluttering of her hand, then turns to fully take her in. Same coveralls as Gearbox, though hers more adjusted to a feminine frame, covered in grease and fluid to match all her coworkers. Normally Veronica would turn her nose up at such a dirty job, but it's actually fitting to the girl. Strangely attractive, too.

 

“His name isn't really Gearbox is it?” Veronica questions, thumb pointed at the behemoth's retreating back.

 

“It's Gary,” Betty fills in, pulling a rag from a random pocket to wipe her hands. “But Gearbox makes him sound much more tough. Doesn't it ya big lummox?” She calls after him.

 

Gearbox lifts his wrench to acknowledge the rib, but keeps his back turned to them, as Betty returns her focus to Veronica.

 

“Didn't think I'd see you again,” she says, still fiddling with the rag.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“Gave you my card over a week ago,” Betty replies with a shrug. “After three days and nothing, I figured you weren't interested.”

 

Truth be told, Veronica kept Betty's business card propped against her phone for exactly three days, constantly telling herself to call but never finding the right moment. From the noise in this place, she's not entirely sure a call would have been heard anyway, had she actually made one.

 

“Well you said it yourself,” Veronica offers up. “Clothes are a cutthroat business. This is the first free moment I've had since the party.”

 

The corner of Betty's mouth twitches upward.

 

“And you spent that moment coming all the way down here to find me,” she says in surprise. “Consider me flattered.”

 

Veronica's bottom lip catches playfully in her teeth, enjoying for a moment the slight flush in the girl's cheeks.

 

“Consider my offer,” she returns smoothly. “You and me, perhaps, a night on the town? One you might never forget?”

 

Betty's head tilts with her consideration, ponytail bobbing behind her.

 

“Intriguingly vague,” is her reply. “So you've got my interest. But I can't help to think our ideas of what constitutes a night on the town won't exactly line up.”

 

Veronica can't deny that, but she's more than willing to give it a shot.

 

“Do you have an alternate suggestion?” she asks.

 

Betty grins, Veronica's focus locked onto her lips, god she wishes they'd kissed that night at the party.

 

“Fifty-fifty,” Betty offers.

 

“What?”

 

“We spend the first half of the date doing your idea of a night on the town, and the last half doing mine, fifty-fifty.”

 

“Oh,” Veronica responds, somewhat taken aback. “That's actually kind of clever.”

 

Betty shrugs, pleased with herself.

 

“Friday work for you?”

 

“I'm free whenever,” Betty replies. “But are you sure your CEO lifestyle won't keep you from flaking on me?”

 

Veronica steps closer to Betty, eyes challenging.

 

“A Lodge never misses an appointment.”

 

Betty doesn't even blink.

 

“Then you're on.”

 

/\

 

It wouldn't be a first date without a couple of hitches.

 

The first being Veronica's driver initially not letting Betty into the car, because he couldn't believe on appearance alone, that she was Miss Lodge's escort for the evening. Second could easily be all the high brow glares Betty receives as they're guided to their table at Per Se, her choice of stripped dress with so many unnecessary zippers and torn up fishnet stockings, not something the clientele are used to sharing with their meal. To the point where service is almost refused if Veronica doesn't throw the weight of her surname around. Third, honestly isn't much of a knock, but Betty having to ask why there are three forks on the table tickles her in a way that's oddly refreshing.

 

“Tell me about this town you grew up in,” she says after a sip of Chablis.

 

“What?” Betty replies, still examining the shrimp fork. “Riverdale?”

 

“From what little your sister has said about, the two of you were basically raised in a Norman Rockwell painting.”

 

Betty can't help but roll her eyes at the statement.

 

“Yeah, Polly would paint it that way.”

 

Veronica lift a curious brow.

 

“Are you saying it wasn't?”

 

“Not exactly,” she replies setting the fork back on the table. “Think of it like this, it's a picture perfect postcard of a town, with a message written in blood on the back.”

 

“Oh my.”

 

Betty nods.

 

“Let's just say there's a reason Alice Cooper's fair haired daughters ran off to the big city the second they could.”

 

“Well now you've got my curiosity piqued.”

 

Betty chuckles softly, reaching for her own wine glass, sweet and blood red she told the waiter.

 

“Unresolved childhood issues is kind of heavy subject matter for a first date, don't you think?”

 

Veronica can't help the tiny pout.

 

“I suppose,” she concedes. “So you just followed her to New York then?”

 

“Kind of. I mean, she got into Columbia, and me to NYU. We always had a plan to go to college in the same region, and were lucky enough to have it work out that way.”

 

“You went to college?”

 

Betty's mouth drops a little.

 

“There is a condescending amount of surprise in your voice, Lodge.”

 

“No!” Veronica is quick to retract. “It's just, do they have motorcycle maintenance programs at NYU?”

 

“No,” Betty informs. “But they do for journalism.”

 

Veronica leans forward, pleased that her instincts about this Pandora's box of a girl, are turning out to be accurate.

 

“You're a reporter?”

 

Betty shakes her head.

 

“Was going to be. Following in mommy dearest's'footsteps no matter how hard I tried to fight that. Reporting was always a knack I had, and never bothered to deny it, until I met Big Al.”

 

“Who's Big Al?”

 

“Owns the shop. He was working the blowtorch that day you came in.”

 

“And you just what?” Veronica wonders. “Fell into it?”

 

“Kind of,” Betty replies with a shrug. “My dad and I always worked on cars together. Motorcycles too. Another thing I had a knack for. Big Al was admiring my bike outside a bar on the Bowery, and when I told him I did it myself, he offered me a job on the spot.”

 

“Wow,” Veronica replies, oddly impressed. “And the punk thing?”

 

“Punk thing?”

 

“I'm guessing there's a story behind that, too. Or were you always just a rebel?”

 

Betty takes a long deliberate sip of her wine.

 

“I feel like we're only focused on me here,” she says on the swallow.

 

Veronica grins.

 

“You are by far the most interesting person I've met in a long, long time.”

 

Color instantly flushes into Betty's cheeks.

 

“Punk thing. Spill.”

 

“That's not really a story,” Betty replies with a cluck of her tongue. “Archie, my best friend growing up, his dad was actually a huge fan of the Ramones. You would have never guessed it looking at him, but one day Archie and I were just playing at his house, and I saw the cover of the first record sitting on a shelf and something in me just clicked. It was a downward spiral from there.”

 

The waiter brings their entrees after that, leaving Betty to wonder which fork she's supposed to use, as Veronica laughs good naturedly and guides her through it.

 

-

 

To label the place a dive bar would be giving it an upgrade. Calling it a hole in the wall would be far more accurate. And literal. There is a gaping wound of drywall right next to the bathrooms. Veronica doesn't want to touch anything without disinfecting it first, and looks helplessly to Betty every time her hands inadvertently make contact with something.

 

The blonde is irritatingly amused with her discomfort, and Veronica wonders if this is some kind of revenge for making her stick out like a sore thumb at dinner, then nearly has a panic attack when realizing she's suddenly standing all alone next to the pool table. The patrons eye her suspiciously, Veronica knowing she must stink of money, hand reaching into her bag in defense.

 

Betty reappears at her side just as suddenly as she'd gone, offering a glass which Veronica accepts warily, trying to come up with an excuse as to why she doesn't want it to make contact with her lips.

 

“What is it?”

 

“A drink.”

 

“Yes, I can see that. What kind of a drink?”

 

Betty sips hers before answering.

 

“Sidecar.”

 

Veronica can't help but tut dismissively.

 

“My abuelo drinks these.”

 

Betty grins.

 

“Your grandpa has good taste.”

 

Still Veronica hesitates.

 

“Trust me.”

 

Ugh. Fine. Whatever. She closes her eyes as she takes a sip, and is pleasantly surprised when the flavor hits her tongue. Despite the seedy origins, and questionable hygiene of the glassware, this might just be the best cocktail she's ever had. Betty smiles knowingly when Veronica's eyes open.

 

“Darby's a mixologist,” she says with a nod at the drink in her hand.

 

“And he works here?” Veronica can't help but reply.

 

“Upscale bars tend to frown on people with priors,” Betty replies, hooking a free arm through Veronica's and leading her around the pool table. “We got next,” she informs the gruff individuals playing a game.

 

“Sure thing, Betts.” One of them replies easily.

 

Veronica hesitates to sit at the table, which Betty laughs at, shedding her jacket and laying it across seat.

 

“That better your highness?” She offers playfully.

 

Veronica flushes with embarrassment, but sits on the coat regardless.

 

“Your turn,” Betty goes on.

 

“My turn for what?”

 

“To tell me your life story. I bet there's a million scandalous tales growing up in the one percent. Running a fashion empire. All that kind of stuff.”

 

Veronica takes another drink.

 

“You're going to have to pick one of those,” she states with a smirk.

 

“Fine. The fashion thing. How did that come about? I mean, your dad's a financial genius, and mom a socialite. So did that like, fall somewhere in the middle?”

 

“I guess I was always sketching,” Veronica reminisces. “Better clothes than the ones my dolls came with. Better outfits than the ones picked out for me. I always wanted something unique, you know? As if I couldn't imagine dressing the same as everyone else.”

 

Betty nods in agreement. While their individual fashion statements do not coincide on a visual level, the place they originate from shares an odd kinship.

 

“So private school must have been hell for you,” she teases. “What with all those matching uniforms.”

 

“I actually petitioned for a redesign.”

 

Betty laughs. “And?”

 

“We had the best damn uniforms in all of New York.”

 

Betty's eyes narrow lightheartedly.

 

“You don't get told 'no' a lot, do you?”

 

Veronica doesn't bat an eyelash.

 

“Never.”

 

The pool table frees up after that, Betty offering to help Veronica understand a few points to the game, to which the brunette replies 'rack'em' with a cool quiet confidence. She immediately sinks three balls off the break, leaving Betty to stare at the table slack jawed.

 

“You're a shark,” she offers up.

 

Veronica sidles closer to her, neck craning to tease her mouth closer to Betty's ear.

 

“You have no idea how apt a description that is for me.”

 

-

 

They are properly tipsy around two in the morning, standing outside the bar waiting for Veronica's driver to come back around, fingers linked loosely together.

 

“As far as first dates go,” Betty starts to ask. “How does this rank?”

 

“Worthy of a second,” Veronica replies quickly. “That is, if you're interested.”

 

Betty leans closer.

 

“Definitely,” she insists, closing the gap to-

 

The roar of a motorcycle coming to life derails the kiss, Betty veering to the left and bumping her nose into Veronica's shoulder, who laughs at the misfire and wraps her arms around the girl's waist.

 

“I will get you on the back of mine one day,” Betty mumbles, meaning her own motorcycle, into the fabric of Veronica's overcoat.

 

It will never work, Veronica muses, shifting so that she and Betty meet eye to eye. That was her initial reaction off their first meeting. For so many superficial reasons, but oh, how she wants to try.

 

The kiss is abundant with alcohol, and the promise of what's to come.

 

Neither girl has tasted anything so sweet.

 

“Only part of that sentence is true,” Veronica counters.

 

“Which part?”

 

Veronica grins.

 

“You will get me.”

 

 


End file.
